


everything's about you to me

by fictionalportal



Category: RWBY
Genre: 5+1 Things, Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But also, Childhood Sweethearts, F/F, Fluff and Angst, I Made Myself Cry, Roommates, Smut, They're soulmates, don't worry he's here for like 2 scenes, punch adam taurus, the angst goes by fast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 00:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19414768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalportal/pseuds/fictionalportal
Summary: Blake is six years old--and a very tall, blonde girl about the same age is blocking her sand castle.“Hi! I’m Yang. Will you marry me?” The girl extends her right hand.(Five times Yang asks Blake to marry her, and one time Blake steals her thunder.)





	everything's about you to me

Blake is six years old--and a very tall, blonde girl about the same age is very rudely blocking her sand castle.

“Hi! I’m Yang. Will you marry me?” The girl extends her right hand.

Blake just stares at Yang’s hand, then looks back up at the round, smiling face. Big, lavender eyes. _Pretty_ , Blake thinks. She hasn't yet learned to sugarcoat such thoughts in her own mind. Still, she glares. “We can’t get married,” she says flatly. 

“Why not? My dad says he married my mom because he thought she was beautiful, and I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, ever. So will you marry me?” Her hand is still stretched out, inviting despite the dirt under her nails and the scrapes on her palms.

“Okay. But only if you can spell ‘beautiful,’” Blake says, knowing she’s won as soon as she sees confusion take root in Yang’s features.

Yang hangs her head and it’s like watching the sun disappear behind a dark cloud.

Blake can only take pity on her. “You can help me with my sand castle if you want.”

The lavender eyes sparkle bright again.

“Besides,” Blake takes Yang’s hand. “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

***

At thirteen, Blake is young for her eighth grade class. Her birthday isn’t until the end of May, weeks after the spring formal. Which she does _not_ want to attend.

Her parents are insisting, though, and that means she’ll probably have to slow dance with a boy. Or worse, several boys. It’s not that she doesn’t like them--she does, probably--but she’d rather be home reading. If she has to go, she’s definitely wearing sneakers with her dress.

To her surprise, there _is_ one boy that pays attention to her (a little more than she’d like, if she’s being honest). His hair is an uneven, bright red thanks to some temporary dye he bought at Hot Topic, and Blake has a hard time taking him seriously.

She can’t help but laugh, mostly out of shock, when he gets down on one knee in the middle of the hallway and asks her to go to the formal with him.

Then he gets angry, and she realizes he isn’t joking. 

She blurts out an apology and runs.

Now she really doesn’t want to go to the dance, but her parents are truly relentless. Her dad drops her off right at the entrance, tells her to have fun, and says he’ll be back at 9:00.

Blake shuffles into the gym, hoping that her dark dress will let her blend with the shadows in the corners. Like a spider.

For almost half an hour, she entertains herself by stacking paper cups. At one point, she starts pretending that she’s actually in charge of the snack table, handing out Goldfish like it’s her dream job.

Someone walks up next to her and she nearly jumps out of her skin. She looks up, praying it isn’t Adam with the bright red hair and frighteningly intense blue eyes--and she finds lavender instead. 

“Hi,” Yang says, far too confident for a middle schooler wearing what must be her dad’s old, slightly ill-fitting blazer. “I hope the school’s paying you for all this work.”

 _She’s even taller than she was yesterday,_ Blake thinks. “Can I get you something?” She asks.

“Actually, yes. My dance partner had to go home, so...”

Blake nearly drops the Goldfish onto the table. Instead, cool and controlled, Blake puts the cup down.

Yang bows her head and holds out a hand, a gesture so awkwardly formal that Blake has to giggle. Yang’s fingertips have sprouted callouses--she plays guitar, Blake remembers.

“You look really nice,” Yang says as the second verse of a slow song kicks in. Her hands drop to Blake’s waist.

“Thanks,” Blake replies, her mouth too dry and her brain too mushy to return the compliment.

A cocky smile blooms on Yang’s lips, and Blake knows what’s coming. “Marry me?” Yang jokes. She says it all time, always reminding Blake of their first meeting in the sandbox.

Blake smiles, suddenly forgetting to feel self-conscious about the fact that her dress has an open back. Even if people are staring, they don’t feel all that important.

She makes her dad wait in the parking lot until 9:35. 

***

 _Seventeen-year-olds aren’t allowed to drink,_ Blake hears her mother’s voice in her head, guilting her into veering away from the table of drinks in Velvet Scarlatina’s enormous basement. It's a miracle they even let her come to this Halloween party, and she isn't going to ruin her future chances at socializing by coming home smelling like cheap vodka.

Then again, Blake isn't entirely sure she likes parties.

The pounding music doesn't even have good lyrics. There aren't nearly enough snacks, and the ones available are either too sweet or too salty. The whole thing is just an excuse for sweaty, horny teenagers to back each other up against walls.

When Blake accepted her friend Sun’s invitation to come to a casual ‘kickback,’ she didn’t realize just how many people would be packed into the house. She suspects the bursting attendance has something to do with Coco Adel, Velvet’s best friend and unequivocally the most popular girl in school. Even if they aren't responsible for personally inviting everybody, word spreads quickly, and anybody who cares even an iota about their social status would certainly make a point of showing up.

Blake, however, does _not_ care about such things, and she's only here because Sun guilted her into being his wingwoman. He claimed her cool and mysterious demeanor attracted more interesting people. After watching him shotgun two beers in the foyer, she's glad she decided to come. Sun doesn't need a wingwoman--he needs a babysitter.

Two hours in, he disappears into the crowd, no doubt going after someone way out of his league. Blake lingers by the snack table, which she’s determined is the safest place at any social event.

Unfortunately, in all her calculations, she forgot about Adam.

He wants to dance, and Blake is too lovely to be standing alone by the wall. She tries to tell him that she _likes_ standing by the wall, thank you very much, but he isn’t interested in listening. Blake’s heels drag against the carpet as she fails to resist his pull.

What harm can one dance do? He asks, pulling her along. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, she knows, but his pushiness is doing less than nothing to soothe her mood.

She stays for a song and a half, deliberately dancing a little wild and flailing her arms to keep him out of her space.

When she excuses herself to get water, he grabs her wrist again, hands rough and demanding. She twists out of his grip and takes off, pushing past people and moving towards the stairs as quickly as possible.

Velvet’s house is a maze, and Blake needs to figure out a way to lose him. He's not going to take no for an answer. She kicks her boots off, abandoning them near the garage door and continuing silently in her socks. She shoots off a text message to her mother while she runs, searching for a door that might lock. _Stupid_ _open floor plans..._

Heavy footsteps ascend the basement steps, no doubt Adam’s clunky combat boots stomping in pursuit.

Blake dashes down a windowless hallway. A ways in front of her, she hears water running. Then a door opens.

Soft light streams into the hall, and a second later Yang Xiao Long steps out. When she sees Blake, half a dozen emotions wash over her face: surprise, delight, confusion, understanding, panic.

“Blake?” She says, concern unmasked.

“Does that door lock?” Blake asks, not quite stopping.

Yang nods and reaches out to her.

Blake clasps the outstretched hand and lets Yang pull her inside. She hears the lock _click_ softly behind her.

You’d think such a large house would have more spacious bathrooms.

Yang starts to speak. “Are you--”

Blake shushes her (perhaps a little more viciously than necessary, but it gets the point across).

She holds Yang’s hand tighter when she hears his predatory, lumbering gait, more suited to a serial killer than a teenage boy. It comes closer, closer, _closer_ and Blake doesn’t want to listen anymore. She wants it to go away, wants _him_ to go away. She’d run if she could, but where would she hide? The shower?

A thousand breaths a minute and there’s still not enough oxygen in her lungs. 

Just when she starts to wonder how long it will take her to pass out, gentle arms wrap around her. She buries her face in Yang’s jacket. It probably smells nice, she thinks, but her brain can’t register it.

The threatening footsteps approach the door, and Yang pulls away just enough to look in Blake’s eyes, searching. Blake knows she understands. 

When he pounds his fist against the door, Yang fires back that it’s _Occupied, moron._ She flushes the toilet for verisimilitude’s sake. The sound graciously drowns out Blake's labored breathing.

He knocks again, but Blake knows he’s not patient. After two more tries, he calls no one in particular an asshole and leaves.

Blake stays there in Yang’s arms, certain there’s nowhere on Earth she’d feel safer. The feeling of well-worn fake leather against her palm makes her forget that she’s trapped in a tiny, tiny bathroom. Yang adjusts, holding tighter, and a few strands of blonde brush against Blake’s cheek.

“Are you okay?” Yang whispers into Blake’s hair.

Blake can only nod. After being silenced so aggressively, her voice isn’t ready to come back just yet.

Yang lets her cry freely for a few minutes. 

When Blake finally chokes out the last sob her body can manage, the arms around her loosen ever so slightly, offering space if she wants it. She draws in a deep breath, shuddering with the effort but welcoming the oxygen nonetheless.

Yang’s thumbs brush at her tears, and Blake doesn’t ever want to leave this room.

“What happened?” Yang asks, dangerously steady.

Blake knows what she’s asking. _Did he try something?_ It wasn’t that bad, Blake thinks, but she knows that to Yang laying a hand on someone against their will is a felony. Her rage simmers, ready to boil over. If Blake tells the truth, there’s a good chance Adam will leave this house with a broken nose.

But Blake doesn’t want to think about Adam anymore, not when she could focus on the supernovas in Yang’s eyes instead.

So she shakes her head and presses her torso against Yang’s.

“Hey,” Yang says a second later. “Blake.”

Blake looks up at those dimples, somehow perfectly symmetrical despite the crooked smile carving them out.

“Marry me?”

Laughter, finally. Blake feels it in her chest, even if she can’t quite let it free. She’s afraid it will drag up the last few furious sobs clinging to her ribcage. All she can offer is a weak smile, but it seems to be enough for Yang.

(She’s always enough for Yang, even if she doesn’t fully understand it yet.)

***

College is supposed to be a big deal, but to Blake it simply feels like another year of school. She’s only moving one city over, and in serendipity’s greatest showing yet, she and Yang are going to the same school. Becoming roommates is as easy as merging their respective bedrooms.

Blake, for one, is thrilled to have unlimited access to Yang’s wardrobe (as if she hasn’t been stealing shirts for years already).

Once all of the boxes are moved in--Yang barely brought two suitcases--Blake goes back out to the car just to make sure nothing gets left behind. She hugs her parents goodbye, not at all surprised when they both break down crying. Taiyang gets out of his truck and gloms onto the Belladonnas; he's been crying since they arrived, and Ghira yanks him into the bear hug without a second thought. 

Yang laughs when she sees their parents huddled together in a puddle of proud tears. She ruffles her dad’s hair and tells him that she’ll see him in two weeks. Three, tops. He says it’s too long, _far_ too long, but then Kali invites him to dinner and he perks up. He wishes the girls good luck and follows Ghira out of the parking lot.

Blake turns around to make some quip about lions and tigers getting along, but Yang’s already back inside the dorm.

In the common area, a few colorful posters advertising clubs catch Blake’s eye, but she has plenty of time to figure out what she wants to do later. Right now, she has some very important noodles on the way.

When she gets back to the room, Yang is blocking the the doorway and grinning like she’s just won the lottery.

She holds out a hand across the threshold. “Miss Belladonna, welcome to room 117.”

Blake rolls her eyes, but she places her hand in Yang’s and takes a step inside.

That familiar, brilliant energy draws her in. There’s a new freckle by Yang’s left nostril, Blake notices. A whole room waits somewhere behind them--Blake knows it in the back of her mind, and her boxes need to be unpacked--but she’s busy rediscovering that being in such close proximity to Yang Xiao Long has the unique ability to make her forget exactly where and _when_ she is. They’ve known each other so long that time doesn’t quite feel real anymore.

She doesn’t realize just how close they’ve drifted until Yang’s warm breath tickles her cheek.

And then Yang has the sheer audacity to ask Blake _what she wants to eat._

Blake nearly short-circuits. “What?”

“For dinner,” Yang tacks on, her eyes far too innocent for someone with such intoxicating superpowers.

“Uh-huh,” Blake says, managing to set a new record for inarticulateness in Yang’s presence.

“Okay,” Yang replies artfully. 

How is it possible to be too close and too far at the same time?

Just then, Blake’s phone rings, and her soul pulls back from the space between them and returns to her body.

The noodle delivery man is having a hard time finding their dorm. Blake figures out where he is, directs him to a map, and resists cursing him out for interrupting at the worst possible moment.

Yang’s thrilled that Blake's already ordered food, and apparently her sense of humor isn’t fazed by almosts. “You know, we’re already moving in together. The next logical step is to just get married.”

“You are such an optimist,” Blake counters.

Blake’s not sure whether she believes in fate, but inevitability is sounding more and more plausible.

***

It’s Blake’s 21st birthday, and Yang’s hands are _everywhere_.

They shouldn’t be doing this, they shouldn’t--but Blake isn’t going to stop herself, and she certainly isn’t going to stop Yang’s fingers.

At least they’d have an excuse if they were tipsy. One could say it was a mistake, the other could say she wanted to pretend it never happened.

But when Yang walks out in a strapless, shimmering, gold crop top and _tight_ black leggings, Blake loses all interest in going out to a bar with the rest of their friends. It’s her birthday, damn it, and she doesn’t want to think about consequences when she slams her best friend’s back against the door.

It isn’t the first time they’ve kissed, but it’s the first time Blake knows she isn’t going to pull away until they're both gasping.

Yang’s back hits the mattress first, but it doesn’t take long for her to drawl about how today is supposed to be all about Blake. It's unclear whose bed they’re in, but how could that matter? They’ve fallen asleep together so many times studying or watching TV or talking (or kissing) that superficial divisions can’t possibly make sense anymore. 

The only things currently making sense, as far as Blake is concerned, are the imperfect circles being drawn against her center and the more-than-perfect pressure building in her abdomen. She’s might scream if Yang stops now, but she _knows_ she’ll scream if she keeps going.

And gods, how Blake hopes she’ll keep going.

Blake brings their mouths together, crashing teeth and tongues and heat. She’ll have time later to wonder why it took them so long to do this, but right now her brain can only focus on _more_.

Kissing Yang is as essential as oxygen, maybe more so. Her starved lungs burn, her skin ignites under Yang’s palms, and she’s engulfed, burning alive from the inside out.

If there’s a pleasant way to die, Blake’s found it.

As she comes down, those wonderful hands leave her. Yang isn’t sure she’s allowed to keep touching now that the moment has passed, and Blake feels the need to correct that horribly skewed perception immediately.

Blake reaches out, pulls her close, and swears not to let go.

Then she remembers it's her birthday--and she only wants one thing.

“Let me taste you,” Blake asks, and the wide-eyed expression on Yang’s face in the most awe-inspiring thing she’s ever seen.

Until, of course, she’s looking up from between Yang’s legs and watching her come undone. Blake never knew someone could swear so much so quickly, but she’s not surprised that Yang’s the one setting the record.

With all her thrashing, Yang knocks a lamp off the nightstand. The bulb shatters to pieces, and she follows suit. Her thighs nearly crush Blake’s head (another brilliant way to go, Blake thinks) and the scream that tears out of her is deafeningly silent. Yang's left struggling for breath, and Blake knows without a doubt that this is her best birthday yet.

They agree that a short nap is in order before catching up with their friends--bar crawls can go all night, and it’s barely 8:30. Blake’s spent, but even so she knows that sleep is mostly an excuse to keep Yang close for a little longer. She rolls over and slots herself against Yang’s front, registering for the first time just how perfectly she fits there.

“Blake?” Yang’s voice is so small, an impossible complement to the the unraveling mess she was just moments earlier.

Blake doesn’t respond, already falling over the edge into welcome rest. But she hasn’t hit the water below just yet.

Yang’s hand strokes dark, sweat-dampened hair, and she presses a kiss to the back of Blake’s head.

She must think Blake’s already gone, because she whispers, “I’m gonna marry you someday.”

Blake dreams that it comes true.

***

 _Hospitals are too cold,_ Blake thinks. It wouldn’t matter if it was a hundred and twenty degrees inside. They’re emotionless. Clinical.

She realizes that Yang would love that pun, and the tears spill over for the fourth time in an hour.

Thirty minutes until she’ll come out of surgery, the nurse said. 

Blake knows it was the idiot driver’s fault, but she’s still going to break that stupid longboard with a fucking hammer. _Thank the gods for helmets._

When Yang's hand twitches against Blake's and those perfect, purple eyes finally blink open, Blake tries not to cry again.

She fails spectacularly.

Three months pass and Yang’s cast comes off, her right arm noticeably atrophied underneath. It will take at least six months of physical therapy to get it back up to strength, maybe more. Yang starts to crumble, but Blake refuses to let her give up on herself. Understandably, Yang isn’t comfortable driving for a while, so Blake takes her to all her appointments and holds her when she needs to cry. 

Fortunately, Yang takes to PT rather quickly, befriending her kind, red-headed trainer easily. She’s a former Olympic javelin thrower, Yang raves. By the third week, she’s actually excited to go to therapy. Blake makes a note to bake Gold Medalist Pyrrha Nikos a lifetime’s supply of vegan banana bread (apparently it’s her favorite).

Yang starts to feel like herself again after a few months. She no longer hesitates when reaching for the highest shelves, though she’s gotten good at using her left hand for little things like eating and brushing her teeth. One night, she even offers to drive when they go out for dinner. Blake keeps a grounding hand on her thigh the whole time. Soon, Yang feels okay to drive by herself, and Blake smiles. 

Next week is Blake's birthday and their fourth official anniversary, though it feels silly to celebrate four years when they’ve been entangled for almost their whole lives.

Blake’s setting the table when the apartment door swings open. The plate in her hand nearly meets the hardwood floor when Yang sweeps her up and spins her in a circle. Blake laughs, inspired by the unexpected, enthusiastic gesture--but she knows she’s going to win for best surprise before the evening ends.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Blake says, an uninhibited giggle slipping out when Yang kisses her.

“I have been cleared for strenuous physical activity,” Yang announces.

Blake’s tempted to forget about dinner and drag her into the bedroom right then--it’s been a _while_ \--but there’s something she needs to do first. She maintains her composure, careful to betray nothing. “Are you hungry?”

The question might have innocent intentions, but Yang’s far too wound up to let such an opportunity slip past. Her smile morphs into a far more dangerous smirk, tempting in all the right ways.

But Blake has to keep her distance for a little while longer. She raises Yang’s right hand to her lips and kisses each knuckle. “I missed you.”

“Are you talking to me or my hand?” Yang teases.

“Yes,” Blake answers, punctuating her reply with a peck on Yang’s cheek.

“I missed you, too.”

And that perfectly genuine, impossibly soft smile makes Blake forget whatever plan she might have had.

“Marry me,” Blake blurts out.

Yang doesn’t hesitate before kissing her deeply, answer clear on her lips.

***

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from MUNA's "Everything." 
> 
> i lowkey fucked myself up while writing this, so i hope u enjoy <3


End file.
